


The dry cleaning bills alone are a nightmare.

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Dress-Up Fun, M/M, Outfit Kink, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 07:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12649302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: There are an awful lot of memories stashed in that closet.





	The dry cleaning bills alone are a nightmare.

**Author's Note:**

> Have I told you lately that I simultaneously love and hate you toratio? <3 <3 <3 I should be SPN Xmas ficcing, instead I'm writing uniform!porn XD This was the prompt: **_Hehe, that's hot and cute. I wonder if Dean keeps all his amazing time-travelling outfits? Maybe he now has a closet in the Bunker with them all._** _**And he gets them out for Sam now and then**_. Which came from [*this*](http://archiveofourown.org/works/998744) fic about Sammy loving Dean's Cowboy look ;) Thank you dizzojay for the on the fly beta <3 and it will make a change for my beautiful usual beta to be able to read a fic of mine with little to no forewarning ;) Also, I AM ONE AWAY FROM THE THREE HUNDRED MARK!!!!

Down time is a rarity neither Winchester is willing to waste, nor can they afford to squander it these days. However, on the odd occasion they aren’t too beaten, bloody or downright broken to enjoy a little R&R, Dean loves nothing more than poring through his twelve-years-in-the-making collection of uniforms and outfits. All of which have had to be dry cleaned to within an inch of their lives on at least _two_ occasions.

A fireman’s outfit complete with Velcro straps that have been repaired over and over again; the memory of Sammy practically sobbing when he accidentally ripped the neck piece for the first time, and his subsequent hour long sewing session, and very holey fingertips, will keep Dean in amused chuckles for the rest of his life.

A gun belt and ratty cowboy boots aren’t what Dean could legitimately describe as a _full_ outfit, but add the slightly bent Stetson and a lasting image of Sammy being fucked rough and ready up against a skeezy no-tell motel room wall, and it’s space he’ll gladly give in his closet of _wonders_.

That priest collar has been replaced, at last count, four times. There’s also no way on Chuck’s very green and verdant Earth that Dean is _ever_ going to brave running a black light over the tunic because **gross**. No amount of bleach, _no amount_. How they never got themselves pinched for indecent exposure and abusing a confessional, or using a set of rosary beads for something other than originally intended, is beyond him.

Although, Sammy always did look good in Prison Orange; with damp patches on his knees and his lips wrapped around Dean’s cock whilst the other inmates got treated to an acapella concert of proof that the younger Winchester was _off limits_.

Eliot Ness and the nineteen forties have a lot to answer for, including the permanent rip to the inside of Dean’s grey greatcoat and the ass shaped dent in his very stylish hat, which every so often he still enjoys wearing with abso-fucking-lutely nothing else.

There’s something about the sound of Sammy’s sweaty skin shining the hood of the Impala whilst he wears one of the many outfits he’s acquired over the years, that always manages to make Dean burble like a moron.

Hanger after hanger of memories - some good, some bad, some fucking fabulous - all indelibly etched onto the insides of Dean’s eyelids.

As he runs his fingers across various scratchy materials in the oddest colours and shapes, Dean’s nails snag against a very old, very _used_ outfit. Smirking to himself he flicks the hanger off of its rail and nods, once, as if he’s agreeing with himself over some hugely important decision, and drapes the clothing over his arm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam is so far beyond tired it’s bordering on psychotic and masochistic just trying to keep his eyes open.

Lounging would be a generous description of what he’s doing on the couch. It’s more like someone poured him into the creases in the leather and he’s incapable of dripping into any other position but the one he’s pooled in.

It’s with his complete lack of motivation and molecular cohesion in mind that Sam’s hoping and praying he doesn’t have to move any time soon, which is exactly when there’s a loud crashing thump against the Bunker’s front door.

Rolling his eyes, huffing, and muttering about Dean being a fucking nightmare when it comes to taking his set of enchanted keys out with him, Sam peels himself away from the comfort of the couch which has already moulded itself into the shape of his bastard fucking tired as fuck ass.

“I swear, one day Dean, I’m gonna let you sleep out there, drunk off your ass, and feeling like a tramp.”

Sam drags himself up the stairs and leans heavily against the metal door separating him and his pain in the ass older brother. Swinging the door inwards, Sam’s about to blast Dean with a string of expletives worthy of Benny, when he’s almost knocked off his feet by the vision of Dean slouching in the doorway, wearing an outfit that has absolutely no business fitting anymore, let alone looking **so** good.

Dean’s nonchalant smirk coupled with Sam’s almost instantaneous physical reaction banishes all thoughts of sleep from his befuddled brain.

Old habits die extremely hard and Dean can _see_ Sammy dropping into character. “Dude, you gonna make me wait out here all day, or you gonna let me in to check your _wires_?”

Sam ducks his head and looks up at Dean through long lashes and even longer bangs, before stepping aside and grinning none-too-coyly at him. “Thank god you’re here! I’ve been _waiting_ for you all damned day.”

Dean effects the smug slouch of a repairman who knows he’s about to get laid, and saunters in past Sam, whose eyes can’t help but follow his ass - encased in horrible scratchy blue nylon - as Dean walks slowly down the curved metal staircase.

It’s with a skip in his step and all images of sleep having been forced from his mind, which is circling the drain due to the distinct lack of blood flowing around it, that Sam follows Dean down the stairs; one hand on his fly, the other pulling at the neck of his over shirt. “Don’t think I’m _paying_ for this service, you arrogant dick.”

“It’s all right _Sir_ , I’m sure we can work **something** out.”

Fin.


End file.
